


Could Have Been Worse

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, James Bond Needs a Hug, Q finds Bond's hiding place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: After a bad mission, Bond disappears to lick his wounds. Unsettled, Q tracks him down and shows up uninvited. Now that his normal self-destructive coping mechanisms have been disrupted, how will Bond handle things?
Comments: 27
Kudos: 52





	1. Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually pretty undecided about the specifics of this fic. I know it will be a couple chapters long, but updates will depend on when I get ideas about the inciting event and the rest of the plot.

Q shifted his duffle bag to the opposite shoulder and walked up the sandy path towards the small beachside cottage. He considered asking the cab driver to wait in case this went terribly but decided to try his best to be optimistic. The warm Caribbean sun beat down, and he felt sweat begin to break out on the back of his neck. It also could have been nerves. Not for the first time, Q wondered if this was a monumentally bad idea, but there was no turning back now. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

For a moment, he thought it might go unanswered, but then Bond yanked the door open. Q only got a second’s glance before Bond slammed the door in his face, but it was enough to confirm that he was where he needed to be. He knocked again. And again. He pulled out his mobile and sent a text.

_I’m not leaving. Do you really want to find out which of us is more stubborn? --Q_

For good measure, Bond let him pound on the door for another seventeen minutes before opening it again.

“Go away,” James snarled.

“Not yet,” Q said.

“Q.” It was a warning. A threat.

The younger man raised his hands in a placating gesture, trying to erase the annoyance and frustration at being left outside in the heat all this time. Bond had a white-knuckle grip on the doorframe and still hadn’t made a move to invite Q inside.

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Q said steadily.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Bond didn’t move, but he was thinking something over. Although he was far from fluent, Q had gained a working knowledge in translating Bond’s facial expressions. They were always subtle—a twitch of the jaw, a wrinkle of the forehead, the slightest narrowing of the eye. It was a nuanced language, but this time Q had no idea what was running through his agent’s mind. He reminded himself to be patient, to give the older man as much time as he needed. Rushing Bond was a surefire way to end up on the first flight back to London. Instead, he took the opportunity to catalogue as much as he could about the state of his agent and none of it was good. Bond was wearing a wrinkled pair of linen trousers and a worn navy t-shirt. He was barefoot and looked like he hadn’t shaved in at least two days, and Q would guess it had been at least that long since a comb had touched his hair. His overall disheveled appearance was further enhanced by eyes that were bloodshot from alcohol, exhaustion, or a combination of both. Despite being in a beachside cottage, the pallor of Bond’s skin clearly said he hadn’t spent much time outdoors.

Bond stared at his Quartermaster. This man never failed to surprise him. The tech genius with a fear of flying had traveled halfway around the world to track down his wayward agent after an absolute nightmare of a mission. Found him in his island hideout—a place he didn’t think anyone knew about. Speaking of…

“How did you find me?”

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t track you.”

“Who else—”

“No one knows,” Q interrupted. “Not even Moneypenny. I took some personal time.”

“So, you’re not here on official business then?” Bond asked, glancing over Q’s shoulder and down the sandy driveway leading from the main road. Q realized he was looking to see if he’d brought backup; if there was a team of covert agents closing in on their location to forcibly drag the rogue agent back to England. 

“I didn’t come to force you back to MI6,” Q said. “You’re entitled to time and privacy to process everything.”

“You came all the way to this little island to _not_ bring me back in?” Bond’s voice dripped with contempt and disbelief. Q nodded and Bond’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Then why did you come?”

“I told you: to make sure you’re okay.”

A long pause, then Bond turned on his heels and went back into the house, leaving the door ajar so Q could follow him. Q crossed the threshold into the darkened house.

Well, that could have been worse.


	2. Start with the Basics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's arrived, Q tries to assess what his agent needs and how to go about helping him. He starts with the basics: food and sleep.

He dropped his bags inside the door and looked around. Q certainly hadn’t been expecting a tour, but he was a little surprised that Bond had simply wandered back to the leather sofa in the living room, grabbed his drink off the coffee table, and then sunk down with a heavy sigh. There was a football game on mute and Q could just make out the sound of the ocean even though all the blinds were drawn shut.

Q worried his bottom lip slightly and tried to decide what to do next. Bond’s eyes were closed and, if not for the periodic way he sipped from his glass, he might have been asleep. There was a small kitchen attached to the living room and Q decided that was as good a place as any to start. He washed his hands and opened cupboards until he found one with cups and glasses; he certainly wouldn’t say no to a drink after the day he’d had. He helped himself to a few fingers’ worth of scotch from the bottle on the coffee table, then sat down in the armchair that was perpendicular to the sofa. He took out his mobile and began to explore what restaurants and shops were nearby since he preliminary overview of the kitchen hadn’t revealed much in the way of food. The alcohol warmed him from the inside out, and Q began to feel some of the stress from a long day of travel melt away.

He glanced up when he felt he was being watched. Indeed, a pair of bloodshot, weary blue eyes were trained on him. Q’s mind immediately filled with images of Bond after the disaster at Skyfall; the worn, defeated posture was so similar. Every sharp line was dulled with physical and emotional exhaustion.

Where to start? Q wondered.

The younger man slid to the edge of his chair, picked up the bottle of scotch, and leaned over to pour a splash more in Bond’s glass. He’d expected a quip or at least an eyebrow raise, but the agent’s face remained impassive. The worry Q had been feeling for his agent for the last week suddenly doubled in intensity.

“I’m going to order some dinner,” Q said. “What do you want to eat?”

There was a lengthy pause, Bond looking at his Quartermaster and Q waiting him out with an impassive expression on his face. This, at least, was a somewhat familiar dance; Q waiting until the older man came to a decision about what he felt safe trusting the Quartermaster with. Finally, Bond held out his hand and Q handed over his mobile. When it was returned to him, Bond had navigated to a webpage for a local Caribbean restaurant and added shrimp, coconut rice, and plantains to the cart. Q smiled and, as though determined to undercut this small bit of progress, Bond fully stretched out on the sofa, curled towards the cushions, his back to Q.

When the food arrived, Q was the one went to the door to get it. He unpacked the containers on the kitchen counter and dug through cabinets and drawers until he found the plates and utensils. He dished up a little bit of everything on a plate for Bond: both the items he orders as well as a sampling of the grilled mahi and mango that Q had ordered for himself.

“Food’s here,” he said, after putting the plate down on the coffee table. Bond didn’t stir and Q leaned over. “Of course,” he sighed. The agent was sound asleep—arms crossed over his chest, breathing deep and even. While some of the stress lines had smoothed, the dark circles under eyes seemed more pronounced and Q wondered how much the man had slept in the last week. Clearly not enough and James Bond was conditioned to not need very much in the first place.

Q put the untouched plate in the refrigerator, then leaned against the kitchen counter to eat his own meal. Both the fish and the fruit were impossibly fresh, and he nicked some of Bond’s rice to round it out. Once his stomach was full, Q began to feel the time change in earnest. Given Bond’s reluctance to talk, Q still wasn’t sure if he was a welcome guest or if he should seek out one of the hotels he’d bookmarked on the ride from the airport to the house. The sun must have set recently because the house was shrouded in darkness except for the light cast by the muted television and the single light in the kitchen; it after 1am in London. Q decided if Bond wanted to throw him out he should have stayed awake long enough to do so, and he wandered down the hall to see the other rooms of the house. The first bedroom was clearly James’; the bed a tangled mess of sheets, clothes balled up on the floor, and a loaded gun on the nightstand.

Across the hall was a second bedroom. It was simple and immaculate: dark wood furniture with crisp, white linens. It looked heavenly, and suddenly Q couldn’t imagine going through the effort of calling a cab and finding a hotel. The attached en suite settled it and Q yawned widely.

He took the blanket off Bond’s bed and returned to the living room. Slowly, carefully, he draped it over his still-sleeping agent holding his breath, afraid he’d wake him up. He smiled when Bond sighed in his sleep and decided not to risk it by turning off the television—the sudden change in the light would certainly wake him. Q retrieved his bag from where he’d dropped it by the front door. After brushing his teeth and changing, he slipped into the bed with a rustle of sheets. It was heavenly. He rolled onto his side and was asleep within moments.


	3. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter begins with 007 having a nightmare about the mission. It contains fairly graphic descriptions of drowning and death. Just skip that if it's not your cup of tea.
> 
> Q tries to wake Bond. It goes about as well as one might expect. This is a short chapter, but I wanted it to have it's own space.

The dream always starts with her eyes—fixed and waxy in the way that would tell a sensible man that any resuscitation efforts will be a waste.

But 007 is not a sensible man. He is a man in a fury, a man refusing to accept death as an answer, so he pumps the woman’s chest and breathes into her lungs long after it will be of any use. The little boat rocks in the sea, the rain falling hard enough to nearly obscure the Greek coastline. He’d tracked Cassandra, rescued her from the people who’d imprisoned her, and made it as far as the boat when everything went to hell. There were at least three times as many terrorists as MI6 had expected and they gave chase like a pack of wolves. He dodged, weaved, made impossible maneuvers to try and shake them while she fired at their attackers until they were out of both ammunition and escape routes. There was still one boat in pursuit and the driver rammed into their side, the force of impact tossing Cassandra over the bow of the boat and into the cold, dark water.

In his dream, it seems to take hours before Bond is able to get the upper hand and finally dispense with the two men from the boat. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes. It was enough though. He found her bobbing in the water thirty yards from the boat. He pulled her on board. He got to work.

He failed. The nightmare seems on an endless loop. There’s the part where screams himself hoarse trying to get backup from MI6. The part where he feels her ribs break from the effort of trying to convince her heart to start. That horrible blue tint that begins in her toes and fingers. The long wait for a rescue helicopter to pluck them from the sea—two bodies, one pulse.

Like lightning, something snapped the cycle and he shot up on the sofa with a gasp, eyes racing around the perimeter of the room looking for a threat. They finally settled on Q, who was kneeling on the floor with a hand to his nose.

“It’s just me,” Q said from behind his hand.

“What do you want?” Bond growled.

“You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you up.”

Bond snapped on a lamp and a soft light filled the living room. Q’s nose was bloody—Bond must have lashed out when Q tried to rouse him. The agent tried to take a deep breath, but it was impossible. Every muscle was constricted, and his heart was hammering in his ears. His t-shirt was damp with sweat and he was burning up and freezing at the same time. He probably should have felt sorry for hitting Q in the face, but when he looked down at the younger man again, all he felt was anger.

“You should know better than to try and wake a double O during a nightmare,” he snapped. “It could have been a lot worse than your nose.”

Q looked up over the hand that was pinching his nose shut, his glasses either discarded or broken—Bond didn’t care which.

“You were screaming,” he said. “You were screaming, and I couldn’t leave you like that.”

Bond sprung up from the sofa and made a beeline for his bedroom. He slammed the door so hard, Q wouldn’t be surprised if it damaged the hinges. He rose slowly and made his way towards his small bathroom to see how bad his nose was. He flipped on the light and wet a flannel in the sink before looking at himself in the mirror. The bleeding had stopped, and he was pretty sure nothing was broken, but it was going to be sore for the next few days. He was just glad he hadn’t stopped to put his glasses on when Bond’s scream woke him up. He didn’t fancy trying to get another pair made on this small island. He splashed some cool water on his face and decided to try and get a couple more hours’ sleep. Q got in bed and yawned.

“Not sure how exactly, but I’m sure that could have been worse,” he said to himself.


	4. One Step Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a tense morning chat, and Q takes a moment to enjoy the outdoors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who've sent kudos and comments. Hope everyone is having a good week.

A few hours later, Q woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of daylight peeking through the curtains. He got out of bed and shuffled down the short hallway and towards the kitchen. Bond was standing and staring out the window, a cup of coffee in one hand. His posture was still thick with tension and Q made sure to make a little noise as he entered the room. Bond turned and nodded towards the counter where he’d put another mug near the coffeemaker.

“Thanks,” Q mumbled.

“No milk,” Bond said. “I’ll get some today.”

“It’s fine,” Q said, filling his cup and leaning against the counter. He liked the implication that this would not be the only morning they’d be sharing coffee in this little beachside house; he was half expecting Bond to throw him out at first light.

“How’s your nose?” Bond asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before taking Q’s face in his left hand and carefully probing the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, checking for breaks.

“Nothing’s broken,” Q said, but he held still and let the older man poke and prod until he was satisfied. It gave Q a chance to get a good, closeup look at his agent. It didn’t seem like Bond had gotten any sleep once he stormed off to his room last night. The circles under his eyes were darker, the whites a little more bloodshot. At last, Bond let go of Q’s face. He sighed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I apologize for last night,” he said.

“I should have been more careful waking you up,” Q conceded.

“No, that’s not—yes, you should have, but for your own safety. I don’t even remember doing that last night,” he said gesturing to Q’s face.

“I know.”

“I don’t…” His training prevented him from doing something as obvious as pacing, but it was clear that James was uncomfortable, unsure of how to finish the sentence he just started. He blew an audible breath out through his nose. “I don’t remember exactly what happened once I woke up, but I’m sure I need to apologize for that as well.”

“Hey.” Q nudged Bond’s foot with his own. When he finally met his eyes, Q gave him a little smirk. “I’m fine and it’s forgiven.”

If his comment reassured Bond, it didn’t show in either his face or posture. This close, Q could see the minute twitch in the muscles at the corner of his mouth. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest. Q was mindful of his own body language, careful to appear nonconfrontational and friendly.

“Does that happen to you a lot?” Q asked quietly.

Bond sighed and his eyes flicked towards the window like he was looking for an escape route.

“It’s part of the job,” he said. Q hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t respond, wanting to give Bond the option to continue talking or not. The agent seemed to be measuring his words, and he kept his gaze on Q’s forehead, as though he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) look him in the eye. “Sometimes it’s worse than others. Since Greece,” he added and shrugged like that explained everything. Q shifted his weight off the counter and turned so that he was next to Bond instead of facing him. He let his shoulder lightly brush against the older man’s; he was surprised that Bond allowed it.

“I’m sorry that’s something you have to deal with,” Q said. He said it without pity, just a matter-of-fact statement, the same as if he’d been commenting on whether to turn left or right at an intersection.

“Like I said, part of the job.” Bond blinked and seemed to shift gears, instantly shutting the door on the conversation. “I’m going to take a shower and then I’ll go into town and pick up a few things. Just…” he waved a hand around the expanse of the house. “Do whatever you planned on doing.”

Q polished off his coffee and, once he heard the shower running, he peeked through the curtains that covered the French doors leading out to the patio. He smiled—Bond never did anything halfway, and the view of the ocean was breathtaking. With every shade in the house drawn, he hadn’t appreciated just how beautiful the property was. Q retrieved a book and a pair of sunglasses from his room, then pulled the curtains just enough to slip outside as well as let Bond know where he’d gone. He stretched out on one of the four wooden loungers that were positioned in the shade and facing the blue-green water that was breaking on the white sugar sand. Pine trees, sea grapes, and palms swayed in the warm breeze. The whole thing came together like something from a tourism commercial.

He’d read ten pages of his novel when he heard a car roar to life and then move away from the house—Bond on his way to into town. Q thought over the morning’s conversation. Like most conversations with Bond, the nuances of what he said, how he said it, as well as what he omitted all carried weight. When Q had boarded the plane in London, he had no idea what state he’d find his agent in. Now that he was here, Q had to admit he wasn’t sure if Bond’s state was better or worse than any of his imagined scenarios. A notoriously closed book (even by MI6 standards), James had already revealed more than Q expected him too. The nightmare had forced his hand to a certain degree, but Bond had certainly ignored bigger elephants in the room before.

The mystery of what to do about James Bond combined with the rhythm of the gentle waves lapping the coastline and Q felt himself growing wonderfully drowsy. A gull cawed in the distance. He closed his eyes and wiggled his toes. When was the last time he’d been barefoot on a beach? The breeze ruffled his hair and Q could smell the salt in the air.

Inexplicably, he could also smell tea—earl grey to be specific. That didn’t make any sense, but…yes, the unmistakable scent of bergamot. Q blinked and glanced to his left. There was a cup of tea on the small teak table in between the loungers. James was sitting on the lounger, the back tilted into a seated position and his legs crossed at the ankle.

“Must’ve dozed off,” Q said, sitting up straighter. Bond glanced his way, the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips. Dozed off might have been an understatement considering he hadn’t heard Bond’s car make its way up the gravel driveway, or his entry onto the patio. Beach or no beach, tea was not something Q declined in any climate. He took a sip and made an appreciative noise. It was made perfectly with the exact measure of milk and sugar that he liked. Q felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the tea or the sun because this was as close to an olive branch as Bond knew how to offer. Not another word would be said about it, but Q knew he was welcome to stay as long as he deemed necessary. James sipped a dark liquor from a glass tumbler and trained his gaze on the horizon, not exactly at ease, but certainly not as tightly wound as he’d been. Q balanced his cup on the arm of the lounge chair and picked up his book. He read to the soundtrack of waves, gulls, ice cubes clinking in their glass, and the turning of pages.


	5. Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are going well until Bond asks Q to explain why he really traveled so far to track down his wayward agent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very dialogue-heavy, angsty chapter but they'll get resolution eventually.

“Who knew you could cook?” Q mused as he watched James flip a couple of lobster tails over on the small charcoal grill.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he said before taking a drink from the bottle of beer on his left.

“I assumed your talents only lay in the realm of losing expensive tech and blowing things up,” Q said.

“Keep that up and I’ll drop your lobster in the sand.”

Q smiled and topped off his glass with some excellent white wine that Bond had picked up while he was out. Something had shifted over the course of the day, and it wasn’t nearly as contentious as it had been. While Bond still looked like hell, he seemed almost relaxed standing at the outdoor grill as the evening shadows lengthened and the temperature dipped a few degrees. On the far side of the patio there were four chairs around a small table with a pool of stones sunk in the center. A few clicks of a lighter and an easy propane flame leapt up from the stones. The entire effect made Q feel like he was on his own little private resort.

Bond was wearing a pair of frayed khaki pants that looked nearly as old as Q and a navy t-shirt. Q assumed he must have worn shoes when he went into town, but he’d only seen Bond barefoot since his arrival. The man had at least two days’ worth of stubble on his face and a haircut wouldn’t go amiss; he certainly looked more beach bum than deadly spy. His musings were cut short when a lobster tail was deposited on his plate. James ducked back into the house and returned a second later with another bottle of wine and a bucket of chilled crab claws. He sat down across from Q and nodded towards the food.

“Cheers,” Q said. Bond raised his glass in a silent toast, and they began disassembling the shellfish.

Dinner was leisurely and the food was incredible—fresher than anything Q had ever tasted and simple in its preparation. They were on their third bottle of wine and both men were a little tipsy. Well, Bond was a little tipsy. Q was closing in on properly drunk. He was building a pyramid out of discarded crab shells with the same intensity he might bring to coding a firewall. When the whole thing toppled, he groaned in frustration and swept the whole mess aside.

“Base was too narrow—that was the problem,” Q said.

“That was the problem?” Bond asked. “Not your choice of building materials?”

“I work with the tools I have,” Q said with a grin. He expected Bond to have some sort of witty retort, but the older man grew serious and pensive. He studied Q over the rim of his wineglass. “What?” Q asked. “Do I have something on my face?” He ran a sloppy hand over his face just to be sure.

“Why are you here, Q?” Bond asked quietly.

“I told you to—”

Bond cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“I know what you told me and it’s bullshit. I’ve had plenty of missions end badly, plenty of times I’ve gone off-grid even, but this time you followed me halfway around the globe. So, I’ll ask again: why are you here?”

Suddenly Q wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He knew this was a conversation they would eventually be forced to have, but he wanted to have his wits about him when they did. He sighed and rubbed his eyes to try and clear his head.

“I was on comms with you for the whole mission,” Q began slowly. “I know how hard this one was for you.” Bond’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“What aren’t you saying?” he asked.

“Do you remember all of it?” Q asked after a short pause.

“Of course.” But suddenly James wasn’t so sure. Q wasn’t one to dance around a topic, but he was stalling. Q pursed his lips.

“Can I have some water?” he asked.

Bond grunted in the affirmative and went inside to grab a couple bottles of water. Q downed almost half of his in a single go, thankful that it helped clear his head a little. He leaned back in his chair and chose his words as carefully as he could.

“You pulled Cassandra from the water and tried to revive her.”

“I remember,” Bond said.

“Do you remember calling her Vesper?”

James suddenly felt hot and prickly all over. He most definitely did not remember that. Bond shook his head.

“Repeatedly,” Q said quietly. He let his agent absorb that information and before he added, “Then, once she had died, you went silent. The line was open, but you were nonresponsive waiting for the helicopter to arrive.”

“Did you Code 9-3 me?” Bond asked. A Code 9-3 required an agent to respond unless doing so would result in their immediate death. Rarely used, always respected.

“Three times,” Q admitted.

“How long—”

“Twenty-seven minutes and four seconds.”

Bond didn’t shock easily, but to learn that there was a such a significant gap in his memory (one that couldn’t be attributed to blood loss or injury) rattled him. He swore and rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache. There would be consequences for this.

“I’m surprised it was you who came out here and not Mallory with a psych hold or my walking papers,” Bond admitted. 

“M doesn’t know,” Q said. Bond looked up sharply.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know?”

“I mean he doesn’t know.”

“Q? What did you do?” There was a hint of warning in Bond’s voice and Q braced himself for what he knew was about to happen. He reached for the wine, but James slid it out of his reach.

“I edited the recording and the logs to delete about thirty-two minutes from the MI6 records.”

It was dead silent for almost a full minute as Bond took in the information and all of its possible implications and, with each passing second, he felt his anger building.

“Why would you do that?” Bond’s voice raised with each sentence. “You could be fired! That’s the best-case scenario. You could be charged with treason for tampering with national security files!”

“They’ll never know,” Q said defensively. “I was the only Q branch tech assigned to the mission. I deleted the audio and adjusted the server logs and backup database so even if someone went looking, the mission just appears to be thirty-two minutes shorter than it actually was. There’s nothing for anyone to find.”

“That’s not the point!” Bond roared.

“Then what is the point?” Q shouted back.

James pushed back from the table and stood looming over Q. He brought his face close and when he pointed a finger into Q’s chest it was hard enough to bruise.

“You do not get to risk your career—your freedom—for me,” he snarled. “Not for this. Not for anything.”

“You don’t get to decide what risks I take, 007.” Q said it with more authority than he felt. Bond stood back with an angry huff and stared out into the darkness for a moment. When he turned back, his eyes were a steely, cold grey.

“I want you on the first flight back to London in the morning,” he said. Before Q had a chance to respond, James was gone—back to his bedroom with a slam of the door.


	6. A Little Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both men have a sleepless night after arguing. The next morning they clear the air and Q offers Bond something he sincerely needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's following this story!

“Sit,” Bond said, pointing to chair perpendicular to where Bond was sitting on the sofa. Q thought he should have at least been offered coffee this early in the morning, but he supposed he could always get some on the way to the airport. “I want to talk about last night.”

“You know, we could have talked about last night last night if you hadn’t stormed off to your room like a petulant child.” Q’s patience was wearing thin. He hadn’t slept much the previous night and, based on how he looked, neither had Bond. The tightening of the muscles at Bond’s jaw suggested he was on edge as well, but a second later he sighed deeply and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his legs, head drooped.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” Bond admitted. Q opened his mouth to respond, but Bond cut him off. “But you shouldn’t have altered the mission records.”

“You don’t think you’re being a bit hypocritical? You break rules like it’s breathing,” Q said.

“But when I do, I always have a good reason.”

“ _You_ _are_ a good reason.” Q had leaned forward in his chair for emphasis.

Bond froze, feeling like he’d been slapped across the face. Q took advantage of having the other man wrongfooted for once and explained what he’d spent most of the previous night trying to figure out how to articulate if given the chance.

“You’ve given your life to MI6,” he began carefully. “You’ve saved lives, saved countries, but it has cost you.” Q paused to see if Bond had any reaction, but the man was still as stone. He pressed on: “I admire the sacrifices you’ve made for your country, but there are some things they are not entitled to. They are not entitled to your grief. For those thirty-two minutes you weren’t Commander Bond, or 007; you were James and you’ve earned the right to keep that private.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised by the fire in Q’s eyes, but it still caught Bond off-guard. Q was notoriously protective of the agents in his care and would bend or break almost any rule to shield them. It had simply never occurred to Bond that a moment of private vulnerability qualified as something worth breaking the rules for.

“I sincerely doubt M would see it that way—or a special magistrate for that matter,” Bond said darkly.

“Personally, I don’t think you give M enough credit, but it won’t matter; I’m excellent at what I do. Those minutes no longer exist as far as MI6 is concerned. I’d like you to trust me, James—both for how I handled the situation and for the reason why.”

Bond’s nod was small but resolute. He’d spent most of the night debating just how angry he should be at the Quartermaster. On the one hand, it was a stupid risk for Q to take—one that could cost him nearly everything in his life. It violated at least four different national security regulations that Bond knew of, and he suspected there were at least a half dozen others he couldn’t name.

And yet…and yet Bond couldn’t help but be grateful for Q’s efforts on his behalf. That slip in professionalism would have resulted in mandatory sessions with psych, humiliating conversations with M, and probably a lengthy leave of absence. He still might be facing a leave of absence for going AWOL, but at least it was in character for the agent. In between brief, restless bits of sleep, Bond had come to the decision that he owed Q an apology once the sun rose.

“Thank you,” Bond said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” Q studied the slump in Bond’s posture. It seemed like every time he thought the man couldn’t look more exhausted, he was proven wrong. As pleased as he was that they’d sorted through last night’s argument, Q still didn’t feel like Bond was improving at all. “Do you still want me to leave?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“Last night, you asked me to leave. Is that still what you want?”

“You’re welcome to stay,” James said. “But I wouldn’t blame you for leaving; I’m terrible company.” Q couldn’t help but huff a small laugh.

“I don’t expect you to play host or be in a good mood. I didn’t come here for vacation.”

“Still can’t believe you found me and then followed me,” Bond said. He rubbed the back of his neck like the muscles were sore.

“If it makes you feel any better, it took me almost three hours to locate you. That’s pretty good.”

“Well, I’m glad I could provide a small challenge,” Bond said, a hint of a smile on his weary face. Q’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was on the fence about asking after Bond’s sleeping habits, but he decided to press his luck.

“When was the last time you slept well?” Q asked. Bond actually seemed to consider his answer.

“1998?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Would you let me try something that I think might help?” Q asked. Bond raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop, but I’ve found it helpful in the past.” When Bond didn’t object, Q nodded towards his room. “Go get settled and I’ll be there in a second.”

A true testament to how desperate he was for sleep, James went to his bedroom and laid down in his bed with a heavy sigh, still clueless of what Q had planned. A few minutes later, the younger man came in and came to sit on the vacant side of the bed.

“Why, Q, I had no idea you were so forward,” Bond said.

“I’d have been infinitely disappointed if you hadn’t made a lewd comment of some kind,” Q said, rolling his eyes in a way that was almost audible.

“Not my best, I’ll admit, but I am exhausted.”

Q couldn’t remember James Bond ever admitting to being tired; it truly must be bad to use the word ‘exhausted.’” He propped a couple pillows against the headboard so he could recline next to Bond while still being elevated above him.

“I’m not offering you sex,” Q said matter-of-factly. “I’m offering you something you have a much harder time finding and which you badly need.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Comfort.”

Q smiled as he shocked Bond into silence yet again.

“Just relax and focus on breathing: try in four, hold four, out eight.” It was a testament to James’ anxiety that the simple breathing technique proved difficult to follow at first. His body tensed when he felt Q rest one hand over his heart and the other across his forehead, but relaxed when Q applied firm pressure to both areas of his body.

Q watched Bond’s face contort with uncertainty at the unusual sensations. He spread his fingers out wide and pressed into the tight muscles overtop of where Bond’s heart was beating faster than his body language would suggest. “Say the word if you want me to stop,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. Q applied pressure to James’ forehead and felt the tension ebb almost immediately. He smiled and slowly brushed his thumb over the stress lines on the older man’s brow. The room was dark and quiet, and Q felt the lack of sleep catching up to him too.

After about ten minutes, Q was considering sliding down a little in the bed so that he could eventually drift off as well, but Bond’s eyes snapped open suddenly and his body was instantly tense and alert.

“What’s wrong?” Q asked. Bond shook his head and clenched his eyes shut. “You were drifting off. Did your mind wander?”

“Talk to me?”

“Of course.” It was the first thing Bond had really asked him for and Q was happy to oblige. He slid down a little and resumed applying the steady pressure to both heart and head. “I’ll tell you the tale of the Great MI6 Intern Prank War of 2018,” Q said. “An annual tradition that resulted in a complete rewrite of section nine of the human resource manual.”

It was like soothing a newborn with cholic, but over the next hour Bond slowly settled with fewer and fewer jolts back into wakefulness. His breathing slowed, deepened and he finally seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Q was careful to leave his hands where they were as he positioned himself so he could rest his head on the pillows as well. He kept up his monologue, punctuated with more frequent yawns until he couldn’t hold out any longer.


	7. I'm Not Saying No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond finally gets some sleep and he and Q have an important conversation before breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me a while to post an update. I honestly haven't been sure what direction to take this in and needed to think it through. My sincere thanks to everyone who has left comments and kuddos. You all are great!

Q slept well into the afternoon, making up for the unsettled night before. He woke up to fund his head resting on James’ shoulder, his right hand still resting on the older man’s chest. Q was pleased to find Bond still asleep, breathing deeply and looking relaxed for once. After debating the merits of going back to sleep or getting up to grab something to eat, Q ultimately decided hunger won out, so he slowly eased himself off the bed, waiting a moment to make sure the movement didn’t wake Bond. He stretched his arms up over his head and made his way to the kitchen.

Two scrambled eggs and a cup of tea later and Q considered how he wanted to spend the rest of the day. He considered taking a walk down the beach, but he didn’t want to be too far in case Bond had another nightmare. Instead, he gathered his tablet, headphones, the novel he’d started reading the day before, and more tea, bringing it all into the master bedroom where his agent was still sound asleep. He piled everything on the bed, folded a pillow in half and wedged it under his head, and settled in to resume his watch.

Bond slept like the dead. He slept through two movies, Q’s lunch break, half a novel, and afternoon tea. It was nearly five in the afternoon when the older man finally stirred. It wasn’t the violent jerk into consciousness that Q usually witnessed. He actually managed to wake slowly, those vivid blue eyes shifting to where Q was seated cross-legged on the bed, engrossed in the paperback he’d brought with him. Without looking up from his page, Q rested his left hand back on Bond’s chest.

“I’d like you to drink the glass of water I put on your bedside table,” Q said quietly, waiting until James hummed in assent before removing his hand.

He drank the water obediently after a quick trip to the loo, then stretched back out on the bed. This time Q marked his page and turned to look at him.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“No,” Bond said.

“Going back to sleep?”

“Think so.”

Whether it was something in the way Bond’s eyes flicked away from Q’s face, or Q’s general ability to anticipate what the other man needed, he slid up to the head of the bed and placed his hands back on Bond’s chest and head.

“Your book,” James said lamely, nodding towards the discarded novel.

“I’ll go back to it once you’re asleep.”

Bond opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but stopped himself. Instead he closed his eyes and reached up to pat the gentle hand resting over his heart.

The evening was nearly a carbon copy of the daytime. Q periodically got up to grab something to drink or eat, stretch his legs, or grab something from his own room. He leaned in the doorway to Bond’s bedroom and watched the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest. It was going on midnight and it seemed unlikely that James would wake before morning. Before changing into his pajamas and getting ready for bed, Q put another glass of water on the nightstand as well as a banana and pack of crisps in case James woke up hungry at 3am. He grabbed the quilt off his bed and turned off all the lights in the rest of the house, then returned to the bedroom that had become the center of their existence for the last 18 hours. He curled on his side and watched the tiny movements in Bond’s eyelids that signaled he was deep in REM sleep.

“I hope it’s a good dream,” Q whispered into the dark. Although he’d done little more than read and watch movies, Q was exhausted. He might have appeared confident when he dealing with Bond but, in reality, every time he touched the man, suggested something, or came anywhere close to discussing the mission in Greece, he felt knotted with anxiety and doubt. He didn’t want to misstep or lose any of the trust he felt like they’d established. He yawned widely and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Tomorrow was another day walking the minefield of Bond’s recovery.

Q decided he could get used to waking up on a Caribbean island—a warm breeze and the sound of the waves coming in through open windows. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he felt restored.

“Good morning.” Bond’s deep voice rumbled to his left. Not even in his wildest dreams had Q imagined he would ever wake up in bed next to James Bond. But here he was with that warm voice cutting through the final dregs of last night’s sleep. The absurdity of the circumstances struck Q all at once and he began laughing. “Something I said?” Bond asked, which only made Q laugh harder. He turned onto his back and rolled his head to the side so he could see James.

“No, nothing you said,” Q said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Did I sleep for twenty-four hours?” Bond asked. Q dug around on the bed until he found his mobile and checked the time.

“Twenty-six, actually.”

“Hm.”

“Apart from quantity, how was the quality of your rest?” Q asked. Bond actually considered his response before answering.

“Good—peaceful.”

“I’m glad.”

Bond cleared his throat and got out of bed.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Breakfast in twenty.”

Q rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips.

He waited until he could smell coffee before getting out of bed himself and heading towards the kitchen. James was standing at the stove stirring a pan of eggs and there was bread on the counter waiting to be toasted.

“Smells good,” Q said, grabbing what had unofficially become his mug over the last couple of days. He was acutely aware that Bond was staring at him as he poured a cup of coffee and splashed a little milk into it. He continued to stare at him while Q took his first sip. Then, before Q knew what was happening, Bond was kissing him. His lips were warm and soft, the kiss firm but tender. Bond’s fingers traced the side of Q’s face, and it took every ounce of determination Q had to end the kiss and take a step back. A flurry of emotions washed over Bond’s face—confusion, doubt, maybe a touch of embarrassment.

“I apologize,” he said. “Did I misread?”

“No. It’s fine. Just—” Q needed a moment to collect himself. He needed to get his explanation right; he needed the right words. Bond was already backpedaling

“Q, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shh.” Q grabbed the front of Bond’s tshirt so he couldn’t run off. He took a slow, deep breath before pinning Bond with a look. “I’m not saying no,” he said firmly. “I’m _not_ saying no,” he repeated, placing a hand on Bond’s stubbled face. “But I am saying not right now.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Q said. “You couldn’t possibly because I haven’t explained yet.” He reached around Bond and switched off the stove so the eggs didn’t burn. “It’s too easy to forget that the world is still out there while I’m here. It’s seductive to pretend this is all there is. It’s probably healing too—likely why you retreat to this charming little oasis.” Q pressed his lips together and took another deep breath. “If you still want to once we’re back in London—”

“I will,” Bond interrupted, but Q wouldn’t be deterred.

“And _if_ you do, then we’ll talk about how that can work.”

“Q,” James purred, leaning in to attempt another kiss.

“Not right now,” he repeated. Bond sighed and rested his head against the other man’s. “I know you think it’s what you want,” Q said quietly. “And maybe it is,” he added when Bond began to insist that he knew exactly what he wanted. “But, you’re also processing a trauma. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Bond. Call it what you want, but you’ve been through a profoundly difficult time and this particular coping mechanisms of yours is what you use to numb inconvenient emotions.”

Bond’s hands came to rest on Q’s hips. He looked pensive, like he was working out an especially difficult puzzle.

“Comfort not sex?” he finally asked.

“Exactly,” Q said. Bond nodded and placed a quick, chaste kiss on Q’s forehead before turning back to their breakfast.

“Well, you’re the genius,” he said.

“And don’t you forget it.”


	8. I Do Not Zone Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk down the beach doesn't exactly go as planned and Bond tries using his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love that so many people have shown this story!! I think I have an endgame in mind (finally). This is a shorter chapter because it's so heavy on dialogue.

Q cast a glance to his left, trying to gauge the temperature of the situation. The temperature of the Caribbean, it turned out, was a delightful 27 degrees and he was fully enjoying walking in the surf. After breakfast, he’d suggested they take a walk down the beach. They weren’t even out of sight of the house before Q paused, slid off his shoes and socks, and moved them closer to the water’s edge until the waves lapped up and over his pale bare feet. Bond had raised an eyebrow, but Q shrugged.

“What? It was negative five when I left London. Feels nice.”

That had been over an hour ago and neither man had spoken since. While Q looked around, drinking in the lush sights of the island, James’ eyes stayed trained on the horizon and he almost seemed on autopilot. Was he uncomfortable about their kiss? Seemed highly unlikely. But, if not that, what was it? He gently cleared his throat.

“Are you alright?” Q asked.

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

They walked a few more feet.

“Why?” Bond asked, like the question had just occurred to him.

“You haven’t said anything on over an hour,” Q said. Bond stopped walking and looked around them. Q suddenly understood that he didn’t know where they were; or, if he knew where they were, he didn’t remember getting there. “Did you not realize—”

“No,” Bond said tersely. He was annoyed, angry even at the lapse in his own awareness. Worse still, Q had seen it. “Why did you let us keep walking?”

“It’s your island. I assumed you knew where we were going.”

“Of course I know,” James said. He turned 180 degrees and began walking back towards the house, letting Q trail behind a few paces. The Quartermaster sighed, shifted his shoes to the opposite hand, and hurried to catch up. It was easy to see James was with him now, his eyes actively scanning, a purpose in his walk.

“Where did you mind go?” Q asked. Bond blew a breath out through his nose, a telltale sign he was irritated.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you actually not know, or do you just not want to tell me? Because it’s fine if you just don’t want to tell me.” They walked until it became clear that James had no intention of answering. “Are you being surly because I wouldn’t kiss you?”

Bond laughed, genuinely laughed at the question. He slowed their pace a little so they could talk easier.

“No,” he said. “And besides, you most _certainly_ kissed me.”

“Only a little,” Q said with an indignant sniff.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” James said, a smile in his voice. The sun moved behind a cloud, the aqua water dimming a bit. “I don’t remember most of our walk,” he admitted quietly.

“That’s vexing. Can you pinpoint where you lost it?”

“Sometime after you took your shoes off.”

“You seemed content,” Q offered. “Possible you just…I don’t know…you just zoned out?”

“Zoned out?”

“You know what I mean,” Q said.

“I do not ‘zone out.’”

Q smiled and shook his head. Of course, James Bond couldn’t possibly do anything as human as zoning out. Admittedly, losing track of his surroundings could be deadly for someone like Bond, and it must be troubling to have it happen unknowingly…especially after the episode that Q made disappear. He nudged the older man’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, you know,” he said. “You were under intense pressure, were up for days, and followed that with over 24 hours sleep. It would make sense for your cognitive processes to be a bit off. Research suggests that while the delta waves of REM sleep are critical for higher level reasoning, an excess or even a disruption can have the opposite effect.”

“So, you’re saying…what exactly are you saying, Q?”

“I’m saying not to worry. To be patient with yourself.”

They lapsed back into silence, walking side by side along the water’s edge. This time, it was James who finally broke it.

“I’m not used to it,” he said quietly.

“Used to what?”

“It got to me. The job. Cassandra. It got to me.”

Q stayed silent, letting Bond explain it in short, choppy pieces. The house was a speck on the horizon.

“Didn’t used to,” he continued. “It rolled off me—the death, the destruction. Even the bad ones, the close ones.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “Never kept me up. I always slept. Then…” His voice trailed off like he’d reconsidered what he was going to say. He seemed to steel himself, like he was about to pull a splinter out of his hand. “Then Vesper,” he said, as if that explained everything. Her name stuck in his mouth, even Q could hear it and he wondered how long it had been since James had spoken the woman’s name out loud. He reached across and took Bond’s hand in his. It wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture, or at least it wasn’t _primarily_ a romantic gesture. Q wasn’t completely sure what he was trying to convey with this action, but he wanted to offer something, and words seemed sorely inadequate. If James was surprised, he didn’t show it. In fact, he squeezed Q’s hand and they walked that way for a few yards.

“She got to me,” James said finally. He gave Q’s hand a final squeeze before dropping it. “She might still have me.”


	9. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q make it back to the house where Q shares something from his own past. Bond thinks about things until he needs a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think only one or two more chapters in this story. I don't know if the timeline of Q's life is in any way accurate in this chapter, so don't think about it too much.

They walked up the steps to the patio and Q did his best to brush the sand off his feet before stretching out on one of the loungers. James went into the house and came back with a couple bottles of water, handing one to Q before sitting on the lounge next to him. Q savored the cold water after their unexpectedly long walk down the beach and back. He was still deep in thought over what Bond had confessed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable silence like earlier.

Bond looked…Q wasn’t sure actually. It was an expression he’d never seen on the man’s face before. His eyes were dull, and the corners of his mouth turned down in a particularly pronounced frown. Like fitting a tricky puzzle piece into place, Q finally realized that James looked sad, and he had the sudden overwhelming urge to hug him. He nearly laughed at the mental image.

“Did I ever tell you how I came to work for MI6?” Q asked.

“No. Assumed you were recruited.”

“That’s one word for it.” Q peeled at the label on his water bottle. “I had an early aptitude for technology—built my own computer from scrap parts in the first grade. By the time I was fourteen I had started getting involved in hacking. Nothing serious at first, but the rush was addictive.” Q stopped and took a drink. How many years had it been since he’d told anyone this story? M was probably the only person still alive who knew Q’s history. “My family was killed in the London terrorist attack in 2005.” He didn’t have to look up to know Bond’s eyes were trained on him. “My parents and sister. I was at university at the time.”

“I had no idea,” Bond said. Q shrugged.

“No one really does. Thankfully, the topic of family doesn’t come up much in our line of work.” Q leaned his head back and closed his eyes but kept talking. “I was possessed,” Q said. “I wanted vengeance on everyone who was behind it—individuals, nations, allies, anyone who was involved or could have prevented it. Nothing was off limits. Databases, dark web, CIA, MI6, Mossad, I moved in and out of secure servers like I owned them. I quit school, barely ate, barely slept, and, as it turned out, didn’t cover my tracks as well as I should have. MI6 conducted a silent raid of my flat—went out for coffee and when I came back there were agents with guns drawn in every room, on the fire escapes, in the hallways, everywhere.” Q opened his eyes and his posture relaxed a little. He turned his head to meet Bond’s eyes. “M was waiting for me in one of those windowless interrogation rooms she was so fond of. She gave me two choices: MI6 or prison. Honestly, it was a better deal than I had a right to expect and a pretty obvious choice.”

“She always had an eye for talent,” James said.

“She kept me on a very short leash that first year,” Q said. “I still wasn’t…I still had quite a bit of healing to do.” After taking a deep breath, Q smiled at Bond. “Do you know why I’m telling you all this?” He knew Bond didn’t, and he pressed on. “We want grief to be a straight line, that we’ll start to feel better if we can just survive the first month without the person we lost. But grief isn’t linear. It changes shape and seeps into places we thought were safe and, when we least expect it, it takes us out at the knees and seems as overwhelming as the day it happened. I think that’s what you’re going through right now. One of those sudden, devastating waves.”

Both men were quiet for a moment while Bond absorbed this new information about Q. He’d assumed he was recruited from some posh prep school when it became clear he was a prodigy, offered an opportunity to serve his country and make good money in the process.

“Is that how you know what to do?” Bond finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The last few days—with me,” he added. “You’ve known exactly what to say or do no matter how—” he made a random arc through the air with his hand that was meant to indicate what a mess he’d been.

“Ah. That’s probably part of it,” Q said. “No one should be alone after going through what you have.”

“Were you alone? After your family died?” James asked. Q nodded.

“I was. A few friends tried, but I was rather effective at pushing everyone away.”

“Cut from the same cloth there,” Bond said, as much to himself as to Q. The other man smiled.

“I knew persistence would be required.”

James hummed. It was persistence, but it was more than that. Q’s extraordinary empathy, as well as the risk he took to erase the footage of Bond’s mission, made more sense in light of what Q had just shared about his life. But the truth was, Bond trusted this man more than any other person on earth even before Q had tracked him down. While it was unfamiliar to have someone care for him (without ulterior motive), he couldn’t deny how comforting it was to have a kind face when he woke from a nightmare, or a kind word when he was spiraling. Comfort was a rare commodity in Bond’s life, kindness almost unheard of. Maybe that was part of the overwhelming urge he’d had to kiss him that morning when Q came shuffling into the kitchen, warm and hazy from sleep, looking for coffee. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about kissing the Quartermaster, and he’d been helpless to stop himself. Although Q had stopped them (and James begrudgingly admitted that Q was right to do so), he was beginning to consider what he might do when they were back in London. His thoughts were interrupted by an enormous yawn that he barely shielded with the back of his hand.

“I apologize,” Bond said.

“No need.”

“How can I still be so tired?”

“Even with the last 26 hours, you still must be running a deficit,” Q said.

James stood up and rolled his head in a slow circle.

“Shall I come with you?” Q asked.

Bond’s typical answer would be dripping with innuendo, but Q’s earlier comment about him using sex as a coping mechanism rang in his ears, so he stopped himself.

“Please,” he said.


	10. Cracking the Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q finally breaks through. Bond breaks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I really tried to let this chapter have space to breathe and expand without getting too out of character. We'll see. One, maybe two chapters at most, before this story is done.

Though he was lying on his back with his eyes closed, Bond was anything but relaxed. Even with Q at his side and using the same pressure techniques that had worked so well in the previous days, the older man’s body was tense, his breathing shallow, and his fingers were drumming a pattern on the bed. He was itching to ask what the problem was, but Q decided to wait a while and see if James settled on his own. The last few hours had been intense after all; maybe he just needed a little time. But, when nearly twenty minutes had passed and Bond’s agitation only seemed to be increasing, Q slid down a few inches and leaned on his elbow so he could raise his head and get a good view of James’ face. Q splayed his left hand out in the middle of Bond’s chest.

“What’s going on, hm?” he asked.

“M’fine,” Bond replied. Q rolled his eyes and sighed.

“You’re clearly not. I mean…you’re actually fidgeting, did you know that?”

James raised a hand and scrubbed it over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. At long last, he opened his eyes and, when he did, a tear immediately fell from each one, rolling down the side of his face towards his ears. He quickly rubbed them away and made a low growling noise in his throat, like he was angry at the audacity of his body to disobey his intent.

“Have you been lying here all this time trying not to cry?” Q asked. His voice held a mix of incredulity, concern, and sadness, because he instantly understood that was _exactly_ what James had been doing.

“I don’t—” He coughed to cover the tremor in his voice and shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know you don’t,” Q sighed. He dropped his elbow and rested his head on James’ shoulder. “You’ve absolutely no idea how to grieve, do you?” Bond made a noncommittal noise and Q cuddled closer to him. He still wouldn’t allow James the escape of sex, but perhaps more physical comfort would help because the older man seemed genuinely confused about how to handle to emotions he could no longer run from. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his fingers through Bond’s hair. “I took away your coping mechanism and gave you nothing to replace it with. That was quite careless of me, James.” If he’d hope that more physical contact and a soothing voice would calm Bond down, he was sorely mistaken; if anything, the man seemed like a loaded spring, ready to bolt at any moment. Q picked up Bond’s right hand and checked his pulse. It was racing and Q realized the reason he’d been drumming his fingers on the bed was to cover up the fact that his hands were shaking. Q frowned and let go of Bond’s hand which dropped lifelessly onto the bed. “Would you prefer if I left you alone for a bit?” he asked.

“I don’t…I don’t know? No?”

Q was relieved.

“Okay.” He took a couple audible deep breaths, hoping it might prompt Bond to do the same. With his head on Bond’s shoulder, Q was able to keep his voice low and soft. “I didn’t mean to push you too far,” he said. “But I hope you know you’re entirely safe with me. We’ll just lie here until you feel better. Whatever you need, however long you need, it’s fine.”

A horrible, painful noise broke past James’ tightly pursed lips—something between a cough, a sob, and a yell. It made Q wince. The effort of holding everything in check took so much physical energy. He was pretty certain James had resorted to holding his breath to keep another sound like that from tearing its way free. His face was flushed and the tremor that had started in his hands had now spread throughout his body. Still, he fought it and it was painful for Q to witness. The next time he couldn’t repress one of those terrible outbursts, it was followed by a ragged, gasping inhalation. But then he clenched his jaw and physically choked back another sob. This close, Q could hear his teeth grind with the effort.

“James, you have to breathe,” Q said. He rubbed the rigid muscles in Bond’s chest. “You’re going to make yourself pass out,” he added, silently wondering if maybe that wasn’t the goal. James seemed like the kind of man who would prefer unconsciousness over crying. Q worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He’d told Bond whatever he’d needed to do was fine, but this seemed self-destructive. Like punishment. Q blinked.

It _was_ punishment.

Of course it was. Bond assumed personal responsibility for every failure—real or imagined. It was a trait that pushed him to be a brilliant agent, but theirs was a profession where things could go terribly wrong even after doing everything right.

“Please listen to me,” Q said quietly. “I need you to stop fighting this. You’re allowed to mourn, James.”

He shook his head minutely.

“Why not?” Another head shake. “Explain it to me.”

“My fault,” he finally choked out.

“No,” Q whispered. He rose so he could kneel on the bed and take Bond’s face in his hands. “Look at me,” he said. When Bond clenched his eyes shut even harder, Q couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at his lips—defying instructions to the last. “James, open your eyes and look at me.” Q felt the warm tears splash against his fingers almost perfectly in synch with the moment that Bond finally looked up at him. With his hands on Bond’s face, he could feel the tremble of his lower jaw as clearly as if it was his own. “Their deaths were not your fault,” Q said firmly. “None of them—not Cassandra, not M, not Vesper. You are not to blame.” James slammed his eyes shut again and Q realized he was getting nowhere with this line of (what he thought was fairly obvious) reasoning. For days now he’d basically been doing the same thing: trying to convince Bond that he not responsible for things outside his control, and he’d made no real progress. He needed a new approach—same goal but from a different angle.

Q went back to lying next to James with his head on his shoulder. He gently turned Bond’s head so it was tilted towards him instead of straight up at the ceiling.

“Alright then,” Q said quietly. “Then you’re forgiven, James.”

Bond’s eyes snapped open and instantly fixed on Q’s.

“What?” he whispered hoarsely. His eyes were bloodshot and teary; Q’s were crystal clear and sharp.

“You insist on assuming the blame? Fine. You’re forgiven. You. Are. Forgiven.”

He collapsed—not like a house of cards, but something larger and with a much more violent energy. A shattered sob came rushing out, unbidden and with every last bit of air he had in his lungs. It was a terrifying and beautiful noise. When James went to cover his face with his hands, Q used the moment to move as close to him as possible, nearly lying on top of him, so that when James tried to curl in on himself, he curled into Q instead.

“I’ve got you,” Q said. “Time to let it go.” He wasn’t sure if James heard him or if it was purely instinct now, but they maneuvered until James had his head pressed into the curve where Q’s shoulder and neck came together. The tears he’d fought back for the last hour (or week, or years depending on when the count began) couldn’t be stopped any easier than river that had overflowed its banks.

So that had been the password all this time: forgiveness. It seemed obvious now, but the answers to incredibly difficult cyphers often did in hindsight. He could feel Bond’s breath against his shoulder—warm and frantic. Tears had soaked through Q’s shirt, but there was no end in sight…and that was fine. Q pressed his hand to the back of Bond’s neck, slowly massaging the tense muscles. This was a violent, angry kind of grief, the kind that had been fermenting for a long, long time.

The only thing that surprised Q was when James shifted and wrapped his arm around Q’s middle, pulling himself even closer to the younger man. He buried his face against Q’s shoulder, ragged, ugly sobs showing no sign of stopping. Q wrapped his arms around him and tilted his head so that his cheek rested against the top of Bond’s head.

When the worst finally passed, James was nearly dead weight. His breath still came in jagged hiccups on occasion, but Q suspected he would sleep well once he fully calmed down.

“How are you feeling?” Q whispered. A long pause. Then,

“Awful.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected.” Bond hummed in agreement. “Why don’t you let me up so I can get you some water, maybe a couple Tylenol?”

“I’ll do it in a minute,” James said, his voice gruff and thick from crying. “I want to wash my face as well.”

They stayed that way for a few more minutes before Bond finally pushed himself upright. When he looked at Q, he tilted his head to the right.

“What?” Q asked.

“I need to get you a clean shirt.” Bond rubbed the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. Q looked down and realized that the fabric that had been anywhere close to Bond’s face was soaked. “Sorry,” Bond mumbled and stood up. He grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser and tossed it to Q and took a second with him into the bathroom. After changing, Q got up and straightened the wrinkled bedding before going to the kitchen and getting them both a bottle of water and a bottle of painkillers from the cabinet by the sink.

He returned and found Bond sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Q sat next to him and handed over the water, then held out his hand with two white pills in his palm.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Q said. He rubbed slow circles between Bond’s shoulders. “Give me an idea of where your head is.” Bond took one of those audible deep breaths he usually did right before he told Q he lost another car, but this time, he just turned his head. “Oh, James,” Q sighed. The man was still crying. Slow tears were still running down his face.

“Won’t stop.” He seemed both embarrassed and confused by his inability to control his body. A box of tissues had appeared on the bedside table while Q was in the kitchen and James had a few crumpled in his left hand. The whole scene struck Q as even sadder than the violent outburst from earlier, and he leaned over and kissed Bond’s temple.

“So, keep crying,” Q said. Bond raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it doesn’t seem like you have much of a choice at the moment, does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Come on,” Q said, nodding towards the head of the bed. “I rather liked how we were lying before if that worked for you.”

“Me using you like a pillow and crying on you?”

“But now you have Kleenex.”

Bond huffed a small laugh and wiped his eyes. They settled in like before and Q traced random patterns across James’ back with his left hand.

“Don’t fight it,” he said quietly when he felt tension returning to Bond’s posture. “You’re safe with me.” He squeezed James tightly. “And you’re forgiven.”


	11. Chapter 11

James came to slowly, like he was making his way back to consciousness by wading through wet cement. When was the last time he’d cried like that? He might have shed a tear or two on particularly desperate occasions, but the sort of uncontrollable purge like he’d just experienced? He couldn’t remember…probably when his parents died. It occurred to James that that might not be healthy.

He wasn’t accustomed to his losing control over his emotions like that. While anger could get the better of him, it also gave him focus (or so he told himself). Bond considered himself an expert on packing emotions like grief, guilt, and loneliness into neat little boxes and storing them away. What he hadn’t taken into account was that he’d lined those boxes up like dominos. He’d fought tooth and nail to keep that first wobbling domino from falling, starting a chain reaction not even he could stop. Q wouldn’t allow it.

He focused on the gentle motion of Q running his fingers through his hair. How long had that been going on? James forced himself to take stock of his surroundings, but kept his eyes closed. Based on the rhythmic rise and fall of his head, he must have fallen asleep resting on Q’s chest. He marveled, not for the first time, that those same fingers that could defeat terrorist organizations and wreak havoc on their enemies could also make him feel grounded and calm. And that’s basically what Q had been doing for the last several days—calming James down and repeatedly pulling him out of the frantic mental spiral he’d been in.

He’d told Bond he was forgiven, and it had unlocked something deep inside James. The moment the words registered all his resistance dissolved, and the rows and rows of dominos fell. He remembered sobbing like a wounded animal, curling himself around Q. How long had that carried on for? Even after the worst had passed, he couldn’t stop the tears—it had seemed as automatic and critical as breathing. _So keep crying_ , Q had told him in his wonderfully “you’re missing the obvious” no-nonsense tone. What a maudlin, soggy disaster he had melted into. Yet, instead of feeling embarrassed of the spectacle he’d made, all James really felt was relief. Maybe the embarrassment would come later when he more awake. Or maybe it wouldn’t come until he was back in London—that first time he ran into Q at MI6 outside of the isolated bubble that the island provided.

“I can hear you thinking,” Q said quietly, fingers still lazily tracking through Bond’s hair.

“That loud, huh?”

“Rusty gears.”

“Smartass.” It always sounded like a compliment when Bond called him that, and Q huffed a laugh. “What time is it?” He’d still made no move to shift off of Q.

“Bit after 3. You’ve been fading in and out for the last hour.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I wasn’t tired.”

Bond hummed and finally rolled over onto his back, rubbing his eyes; they were gritty and swollen from sleep and tears. He tilted his head and glanced at Q. His hair was tousled, and his nose and cheekbones were tinged pink from being out in the sun most of the morning.

“You’re gorgeous,” Bond said. Q snorted and shook his head.

“You might need more sleep,” he said.

Huh. That was something.

James sat up properly placed a hand under Q’s jaw, tilting his head slightly, before leaning in and pressing his lips to Q’s. It was warm, tender, but not without a spark of electricity. When Bond’s tongue brushed against his lower lip, Q’s resolve waivered. He made a satisfied little noise in his throat and James smiled, but then he broke off the kiss, pecking Q on the lips twice before leaning back.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” James said. “But I know. Rules.” He got up and smiled softly at the look on Q’s face—equal parts excited and annoyed. Bond went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the door cracked while Q sat on the bed, seriously contemplating saying to hell with the rules and following James. But the rules existed for just such a situation: when one of them (or both) were in danger of crossing a boundary. If Q and Bond wanted to return to their more traditional, aloof relationship at work, a kiss or two could be politely ignored. Sex was a different animal altogether, and sex with Bond when he was emotionally wrecked was a wildly bad idea.

This is what Q repeated to himself over and over as he forced himself to get up and leave the bedroom. While it was very like Bond to invoke a sensual, physical act after a vulnerable moment, that kiss didn’t feel like he was saving face or reasserting dominance. Neither had the one in the kitchen if Q was being honest with himself. Q shook his head when he realized that he was beginning to wonder what would happen when they got back to London. Wonder and hope.


End file.
